From the Heights of Pyramids
by sparklehunter
Summary: All evidence to the contrary, immortality was not what Alexander wanted out of life. Slight crossover with Highlander.


All evidence to the contrary, immortality was not what Alexander wanted out of life.

**From the Heights of Pyramids**

_2005_

_11:45 PM, Boston, MA_

Al let Emily pick the movie as an apology, after canceling the 'meet the parents' date last week. It was not enough to make her forgive him (he had a feeling he would be suffering the consequences of _that_ mistake for a very long time), but she did deign to sit on the same sofa as he did, and awkwardly rested her head against his arm toward the end. Al stroked her hair, and she relaxed in increments against him. He wanted to say, 'sorry,' but Emily was not the kind of girl to take the words well.

"Do you want more popcorn?" he asked, instead.

Emily obligingly sat up, glancing at him with sharp gray eyes. "Alright," she said, "thanks."

He stood and stretched, cracking his neck, and moved to the kitchen. "I have chocolate sauce around here, somewhere," Al called. "Do you want it drizzled?"

This time, there was a hint of a smile and laugh in her voice. "Mm. And you have some caramel, and M&Ms, as well. Do you want me to pause the movie?" Emily ignored his answer, paused the DVD (the main character froze while bursting into the room in elegant brocade robes and _trousers_) and joined him in the kitchen. Al smiled at her. She did not smile back, but there was something approachable in her eyes and the set of her mouth.

Emily boosted herself onto the counter to get the caramel and candy. Al watched her carefully from by the stove, but she did not fall. He turned back to the stove, spilling kernels and oil into the saucepan before she jumped down. The oil and popcorn began to sizzle and pop.

Al stirred the mix slowly. "I had an interesting patient, today," he said.

Emily put the caramel and M&Ms on the counter beside the stove, and got the chocolate sauce out of the fridge. "Oh?" she asked.

"Yes," Al nodded. "He's a neurotechnician at Cyberkinetics. He's part of a research team that built a computer system that can read your mind."

In the middle of taking two iced glasses out of the freezer, Emily paused. "Read your mind?" she asked.

Pleased, Al nodded. "Yes. It's being developed as a method of improving communication for severely motor impaired people."

"Huh." Emily poured beer into both mugs. "How far along are they?"

"Clinical trials," Al said, and took the popcorn off the burner to mix in the chocolate, caramel, and candy.

They moved back into the living room, setting the pot of popcorn on the cushion beside them, and this time Emily sat pressed against Al's side, her head resting comfortably against his shoulder. Al gave himself a point toward his final victory, then turned back to the movie.

It was like being hit with a sucker punch, when he realized what he was watching.

"– An estimate?" Al heard, when the roaring cleared from his ears.

Al glanced down at Emily, then, quickly, back at the screen. "What?"

"Your patient – did he mention how long until the mass market gets it?"

On the screen, the main character was babbling. It would have been comic, if he had not been flooded with jealousy.

"No, he didn't say," Al said, absently. "Shh."

Emily probably frowned up at him, but obligingly settled back against him, and was quiet. Some vague part of Al's mind was aware that any ground he had gained with the movie and dinner were lost, but mostly, he was memorizing the silly bleached ragged curls and silly weak babbling speech. In the corner of the screen, a second character was seizing.

The movie ended soon after, and Emily sat up. "I should be going," she said.

Al would normally have invited her to stay. He picked up the popcorn pot and empty mugs, and walked slowly into the kitchen to put them in the dishwasher.

Behind him, Emily sighed, a deep, rough sound. "Al," she said. "Alfred."

Al started the dishwasher cycle. "What, Emily?" he said, suddenly tired and feeling his age.

She walked over and grabbed his arm. "Are you okay?" she asked. "Because it wasn't like you to miss dinner like that, and you seem upset. Have I done something?"

"Emily, I told you, it was an emergency," Al said, feeling the bite of frustration.

She stared at him levelly.

Al pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I'm just tired from my shift," he said.

He normally worked 12 hours a day, four days a week, at the hospital on Francis Street. They were shorthanded, though, and he had picked up two extra shifts that week.

Emily's gray eyes softened, and the grip on his arm loosened. "You sure?"

Al smiled at her. She nodded decisively.

"I'll go home, then," she said. "You get some sleep. I'll bring breakfast, okay?"

"I'll see you tomorrow," Al said, and kissed her.

She let herself out with her key, and Al leaned back on the counter.

* * *

_1 Week Before _

_10:04 PM_

It was not lying to say he had missed meeting Emily's parents because of an emergency. Al had actually been on his way to the restaurant when he had been unfortunate enough to meet up with Katerina Ivanova, a Russian widow with a grudge.

"Lev," she said.

Al felt her coming, felt the static power raise the hairs on the back of his neck, and did not jump when she materialized from around the corner in the dark parking garage.

He was surprised to see Katerina, however. The woman had been a mortal noblewoman, 120 years before, when her power-hungry husband had tried his hand against Al, and, predictably, lost. One hundred twenty years ago, she had been fiery and contemptuous. From the naked sword in her hand, Al had to guess that the intervening time had not mellowed her.

"Katerina," he replied.

"I told you once I would kill you. I have come to honor that vow."

It was on the tip of his tongue to brush her aside; making war on women and children still felt unfair, even after the passage of some millennia. Al had always known that women were as intelligent and capable of greatness as men – his own mother had been testament to that, if nothing else – but in fighting there was a distinct advantage for a taller, stronger, heavier male. No one was ever accused Al of humble modesty, and he was fully confident that Katerina Ivanova had no true chance of walking away from the fight.

Instead, he took in the set of her shoulders and the tightness in her eyes, and nodded. "Perhaps somewhere quieter," he suggested.

Katerina wore a heavy leather trench coat and sneakers; Alexander was dressed in a suit and dress shoes. Her lips almost curved when she realized she would have greater traction

They walked in measured footsteps to the top level of the parking garage, past the orange cones and warning signs of instability. The garage was under construction, and at this time of night, no one would bother them. Alexander would have an advantage in knowing the ground, unless Katerina had studied the garage before meeting him. A study of her shoulders and mouth decided him; she had not. She was still very young, and impetuous, and certain of victory. She was right handed, but had trained extensively with her left. She had a gun concealed at her ankle; from her slightly awkward step, Alexander could tell she was not used to it, and that it would be more of a hindrance than a failsafe. He would have been willing to lay money on Katerina having at least two knives.

Katarina already had her sword out. Alexander pulled his from the folds of his coat, then folded the wool and set it aside. She laid her coat on a low concrete wall before he did; that movement told him more about her fighting style than any in depth analysis of her walk and shoulders. Alexander set aside his suit jacket, as well, and Katerina smiled when she saw his smooth down the lapel before setting it atop his coat.

"Are you ready?" Ivanova asked dryly.

Alexander was on her before she finished the final word. She barely managed to bring her sword up in time to counter; she jumped and then stumbled back in hopes of recovering, but Alexander continued to press her, his own eyes narrow and his mobile mouth gone expressionless.

In another hundred years, it might have been a fight worth his time.

She managed a cut across his ribs when he was drawing her in for the hamstring, but the fight was decidedly one sided. He took her left arm at the elbow early, hamstrung her, and knocked her sword from her hand as she collapsed. Before she hit the ground, Alexander took her head.

Alexander paced two steps back, and the lightning – his father's blessing, a furious storm that devastated and delighted – tore into him.

_As always, in the midst of the pain and pleasure, he saw people and places he had never been, never would see. As always, he looked beyond them. _Hephaistion_, he called. _Hephaistion_._

_He thought he saw a shadow begin to turn toward him, messy curls black against the flashfire behind it._

Father_, he screamed,_ Father, don't let him leave me again.

_The lightning started to fade, and he thought he saw green eyes, before his father's divine strength left him._

Alexander came back to himself, kneeling on the concrete, memorizing that tint of green and the inviting curl of hair. He was never sure, after taking a quickening, if he had seen his beloved, or if it was simply a memory made real out of pity. Either way, he offered a prayer to his Father in thanks, dedicated the fight to the gods, and picked his cell phone out of his coat pocket.

He rested against a block of concrete for a moment before he called Emily.

"Sweetheart," he said, when she picked up.

"Al, where are you?" she asked. Her tone was level, willing to listen and reserve judgment. In the background, he heard an older couple talking and asking Emily who was on the phone, and if everything was okay.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I won't be able to make it tonight. There's been an emergency."

There was a moment of silence on the phone. "Al, this is not a good time for that," Emily said.

Al rubbed at his eyes. "I know, Emily. I know," he said.

* * *

_323 BCE_

_The First Morning, Babylon_

Alexander was breathing hard when he awoke. This confused him; he had been dying.

The weakness was gone from his body, so he sat up, and saw a window. He recognized the cityscape of Babylon, and was abruptly overcome by the dizzying horror that he was still alive. He clutched at his heart, and felt it break again.

"So, you awaken, King Alexander," a cheerful voice called.

Alexander looked to the door of the room he was in. It was not his room; from the buildings outside, he would say it was not even in the same quarter of the city. He took in the comfortable furnishings, rich cushions, bright silks, and then met the sharp eyes of the man entering the room. The stranger carried a tray of food, but he had neither the look nor manner of a servant.

"So it is true," Alexander said. "I am the son of Zeus."

It was not exactly what he meant to say, but the man looked at him, the humor fading.

"I suppose so," the man agreed.

"I am immortal?" Alexander asked.

"Yes," said the stranger.

Alexander wept.

The man set the tray on the table next to the bed, beside a bowl of water for washing, and left him alone.

When the man returned, Alexander had cleaned his hands and face in the washbasin, and started on the platter of food. Alexander nodded for the man to join him, and they ate together in silence for a few moments.

"My king," the man started.

Alexander held up his hand to stop him. "What is your name?" he asked.

"Methos," the man replied, and looked surprised. "But call me Ashkan."

Alexander nodded. "Thank you, Ashkan, for your kindnesses."

Ashkan smiled at him. "Of course. But there are more important things to discuss, my King."

"I will not be returning," Alexander said, before Ashkan could speak. He looked out the window in the direction of his old home. "I have nothing left to give them."

The other man pursed his lips. "You could have the entire world," he pointed out.

Alexander shook his head. "I have nothing left," he repeated.

"Then I shall tell you what you need to know, and send you where you want to go," Ashkan decided.

Alexander turned back to him.

"You can be killed," Ashkan began. "The gods may be our parents, but, like Achilles, we have our weakness."

"You are immortal, too?" Alexander started.

Ashkan blinked. "Oh, yes. There are many of us. We appear in villages and palaces, are taken in by mortal women, and grow until we reach our first death." He picked up the knife from the tray, and sliced his finger. Alexander watched as blood filled the cut, then lighting danced along it and sealed the wound until there was not even a scar left beneath the blood.

"Zeus' blessing upon us," Ashkan explained. "Here."

Alexander took the knife he offered hesitantly, spotted the amusement in the other man's eyes, and promptly sliced his palm straight across. The shock of the wound was nothing; he ignored it to watch the blood fill his cupped hand, then little bolts of lightning closed the cut. Alexander looked up.

Ashkan's expression was curiously hungry. When he had first awoken, Alexander had been too shocked to evaluate his situation, but now he studied the body and form of Ashkan, the layout of the room. Ashkan noticed, and sighed.

"I will not harm you, my King," he promised.

Alexander had heard many promises in his life. The only person whom he believed unconditionally was dead, and so he smiled and said nothing, but continued his analysis.

"Does this happen with all wounds?" Alexander asked.

"All except decapitation," Ashkan agreed.

"The fatal weakness."

"Of course."

The tray was nearly empty, so Ashkan moved it aside and helped Alexander to his feet and into a bright Persian robe. It was narrow across the shoulders, and dragged on the floor behind him. It was well made, but made for Ashkan. Alexander appreciated the gesture, but wished for his own clothes.

"Mostly, we let each other be," Ashkan continued. "But other times, we fight for the favors Zeus gave us – to steal the lighting, or quickening, that rides in our veins. We fight with blades to cut off each other's heads, and one on one, but there are only two rules." Ashkan looked to make sure Alexander was paying attention. He was. "We do not fight on holy ground. And there can only be one."

* * *

_324 BCE_

_Noon, Ecbatana_

The Games were held outside Ecbatana, in a huge open field. Unwillingly, Alexander was presiding, and at any other time would have been enjoying himself. His soldiers were in high spirits, the air was mild, and the games were exciting. If Hephaistion had been at Alexander's side, he would have been happy, or at least content to be pulled from his sulk over returning home by his partner's teasing.

But Hephaistion was sleeping, recovering from an illness Alexander had only learned of after the man had collapsed. The past seven days had been terrifying, with the constant fever dreams and delirious flailing forcing the doctors to tie Hephaistion to the bed, and forcing Alexander to sit through pained whimpers and distorted flashbacks. Hephaistion had been so hot Alexander had thought the cooling cloths would sizzle and boil on his skin.

Just before the sun rose, the fever had broken, and Glaucias, who was attending, pronounced the man on his way to health. Hephaistion himself had told Alexander to go to the games, let the King be seen before the soldiers started to believe it was Alexander who was ill. Alexander reluctantly agreed.

He regretted it now. The sunshine and races could not hold his interest, and he was unable to keep track of the conversation. What Alexander wanted was to leave, return to Hephaistion's side and watch him breathe.

The King turned his attention back to the game, and tried not to think about it.

When the messenger scrambled through the crowds to his side, Alexander saw the terror on the boy's face, and his blood froze. He pushed through the people to meet the boy, and grabbed the messenger's arm in a bruising grip. Alexander could not speak.

"Sire," said the page. "It's Hephaistion."

Alexander raced back to the palace at Ecbatana, but the festival impeded his progress. He could hear nothing over the sound of his own pulse and breath. He lost the page on his way.

When he burst into the room, all he could see was the expressions of terror on the guards' faces.

"Hephaistion!" Alexander called, stumbling to a stop just inside the door.

The windows were thrown open for the first time in days, letting the bright sunshine fill the room. It made the room sparkle, and picked up the gold highlights in Hephaistion's dark hair. For a moment, the King did not understand. Hephaistion was just sleeping, he thought wildly. He was sleeping.

Alexander walked slowly to the bed, feeling the sunshine warm air stir against his skin. "Hephaistion," he whispered, and pressed his hand to his partner's cheek.

It was cold, and Alexander realized he had arrived too late.

"No," he said.

"My King," someone behind him said.

"NO!" Alexander screamed, and knelt on the bed to gather Hephaistion's body close. It had not had time to stiffen, and flopped, boneless, against him. Alexander fell onto the bed, over Hephaistion's body, and tried to will his own breath into his partner, tried to force the heart to beat. His tears were falling into Hephaistion's curls, but Hephaistion did not kiss them away.

Other people came into the room, and furious whispers rose around him, but Alexander did not hear them. Arms reached to pull him from the bed, but Alexander resisted, and pulled Hephaistion's dagger from under the pillows when they became more insistent.

He had failed, he had lost Hephaistion, but he would never let him go. He would never let Hephaistion go.

* * *

_332 BCE_

_Before Sunrise, Tyre_

"Hephaistion," the King whispered. "Are you awake?"

They were lying together in the early hours before dawn, long after Hephaistion usually left him. Alexander had his arms curled around his partner, had the soft pressure of breath against his neck. He was warm and comfortable, and tempted to remain there. He tightened his arms, and Hephaistion sighed.

"Alexander?" he said, sleep clouding his voice.

Alexander pressed his lips fondly in the other man's dark curls; Hephaistion kissed his bare collar, and tried to sit up. Alexander refused to let him, and felt the rumble and pressure of Hephaistion laughter.

"What time is it?" Hephaistion asked, looking up at him.

Alexander frowned to see dark bruising still under the man's eyes, because Hephaistion had fallen asleep early, before they had finished talking of the siege. Perhaps he had been working too hard.

"The sun will rise, soon," Alexander said.

Hephaistion's eyes widened. "I should go," he protested, again trying to get up.

"Don't bother," the King told him. "You should go back to sleep. I shouldn't have woken you."

"Alexander," Hephaistion said. "We have too much to do."

"It's a siege," Alexander argued. "You can sleep for a while longer." He carded his hand through his partner's hair. "Sleep."

With a frown, Hephaistion settled back against him, nuzzling absently against Alexander's shoulder. "We're going to get yelled at, again."

Alexander kissed him again, and closed his eyes. "I'll take care of it." With any luck, nothing would require his presence for a few hours, at least, and no one would notice. It did not matter, though. Being with Hephaistion was becoming more and more a luxury for which he had no time. Today, he would spare the hours.

* * *

_342 BCE_

_The Moments After, Mieza_

Hephaistion had messy brown curls that never seemed to fall properly around his face. Alexander loved this, because his Mother used to use a variety of oils and waxes to force his own hair into neat curls on formal occasions. The casual mop that Hephaistion wore tended to drip appealingly into his eyes when he let it grow too long, and Alexander liked that so much he once asked Hephaistion to grown his hair long.

His beloved friend had refused.

After sex, those curls tightened further with sweat. Alexander had noticed this happening after they wrestled or raced, but normally he would put them both into a bath as soon as he could, and that did away with the tight corkscrews. Alexander hated being sweaty.

It was different, after sex. With Hephaistion's head resting against his chest, and both their breathing slowing, it felt good to be mellow, and just be with each other.

"Hephaistion?" Alexander whispered, and tugged at a curl.

Hephaistion grunted, and turned to head to see Alexander. There was an unusual, gentle smile hovering over the other boy's lips, and Alexander felt an equally unusual, sweet grin form on his own.

"I thought you might be asleep," Alexander said.

The feel of Hephaistion's laughing breath against his skin sent a wave of warmth through his body. Alexander wrapped both hands around Hephaistion's chest, so he could pull his partner up and kiss his smiling lips.

"I was trying to sleep," Hephaistion said, between kisses.

"Mm, were you?" Alexander murmured, and tugged at another curl.

Hephaistion shook his head. "Stop that," he said, and kissed Alexander again to show he was not upset.

Alexander ignored him, kissed his eyes and the bridge of his nose, and tugged another curl.

"Hey," Hephaistion said. The look in his green eyes said, 'stop playing with my hair.'

Alexander kissed him deeply, sliding his tongue into his beloved friend's mouth. He buried his hands in his partner's hair, and this time Hephaistion said nothing, simply pressed Alexander into the bed until there was nothing but the weight of him and the taste of his skin.

* * *

_2005_

_After Emily Left, Boston_

Emily had left the movie in the DVD player, so all Al had to do was skip to the scene.

It was a silly movie, really. Al would have even called it awful. It was hard to follow, and the sheer amount of eye makeup would have had any of his Macedonian soldiers up in arms. (Also, if he had ever worn trousers, the rumors about his beloved partner and himself would have been unbearable) Both of the wives they showed were far too old, and compressing the entire Indian Campaign into a single battle with elephants made his head hurt.

He watched it three more times that night.

Not the whole movie, of course, because of all the reasons he had listed and dozens more he did not, but he watched one scene over and over, until he eventually muted the trite dialogue and focused solely on the image of a very pretty actor seizing to death.

Alexander of Macedon would have given anything – his empire, his wealth, his immortality, his armies and victories – to have said goodbye to his Hephaistion. He would have given a great deal more to have been in the same room when his beloved died.

Fin.

* * *

Notes:

Tweaked 11/20/08

Napoleon said to his troops in Egypt, 1798: "From the heights of these pyramids, forty centuries look down on us." It was published in the autobiography of French general Eugène de Beauharnais.

Alexander never wore Persian trousers, though he did wear Persian robes, because he thought the trousers were unmanly.

Cyberkinetics came out with their Braingate project, which does read the user's mind, in 2005, and the project is based in Boston. It is still in clinical trials. For more information, go to cyberkinetics dot com.

The hospital on Francis street is Brigham and Women's Hospital. Al's work schedule is based off the schedule of a nurse at Roswell Park Cancer Institue, in Buffalo, NY. There probably is a parking garage somewhere nearby, but the information about it is bogus.

Lev is a Russian name, from Latin's 'Leo,' which means 'lion.'

Giving a Russian noblewoman from 120 years before the last name 'Ivanova' is fudging history; the common Russian citizen was only given a state last name for a census in 1897 CE. Nobles already had family names, and would probably not have a name as common as Ivanova.

I know nothing of what the games at Ecbatana were like; I'm assuming they were more or less like most Greek games.

Hephaistion did die only a few hours after he relapsed/was poisoned/started to hemorrhage, and Alexander did not manage to return in time say goodbye. Alexander did stay with Hephaistion's corpse for a while; I made up the bit about the knife.

There were elephants in the Campaign against Porus, but, from what I understand (and feel free to correct me), Alexander (miraculously) managed to get them to stampede their own army. As Napoleon said, "yes, but is he lucky?" when presented a possible commander candidate. Yes, he is.

If I forgot to mention anything (or completely messed something up), PM me, and I'll try to fix it.

Highlander belongs to other people.

-- s


End file.
